Distracting - Shelagh and her new pencil skirt
by Mary2089
Summary: If you enjoyed reading Distracted Again, here's the same scene again, from Shelagh's point of view! Episode 3.1


Shelagh Turner zipped up her new skirt, smoothed it over her hips, then turned to look at herself in the mirror. A smile spread across her face and she almost giggled. Sister Bernadette would have disapproved, though she had secretly wanted to look just this way. Sister B would never in a million years have admitted it, but she would have been as excited as Shelagh to see the look on Patrick, or rather Dr. Turner's, face at sight of her in the new pencil skirt. Though Sister Bernadette would have peeked at him and looked away, relying on those brief glances to see the man whose image tortured her dreams, Shelagh could look in his face, hold his eyes, hold him, and in his, now their, house. She felt a throb inside her at the thought. It was wonderfully exciting, empowering really.

She caught her own blue-eyed gaze and smiled again. She was fairly sure what the skirt's effect on him would be, and she shivered at the idea. Her own face was an open book, she knew, but he telegraphed volumes with his gaze as well. She thought of how he would stare, unable to look away, his eyes darkening. He was so circumspect, so careful not to push her physically, but oh did he want to. She knew him well enough now to know that! Sometimes he just needed a little urging, and every day she was bolder and more willing to urge.

It had taken a while, getting used to being Shelagh again after ten years. To being young and pretty and admired, especially by the man she was desperately in love with. Timothy had said it best, without even knowing, "You look very pretty, Auntie Shelagh. Like a butterfly emerged from the cocoon." Yes, that was her exactly, emerged from the cocoon and just unfolding her wings. And discovering she was quite a beautiful butterfly too!

Vanity is a sin! Sister Bernadette would have scolded. But Shelagh no longer listened.

She entered the kitchen to find Patrick reading his newspaper at the breakfast table. "Good morning, Patrick," she said, smiling at him before turning and moving toward the sink. "Timmy's getting dressed. He'll be down at half past."

She heard the rustle of the paper then a pause of complete silence. She felt his eyes on her like a caress, moving from her hair to her ankles, and she felt suddenly warm, excited, almost giddy.

"Morning," he said finally. His voice was husky and she knew he was staring at her. It sent a thrill of desire through her body. She turned to the cabinet, reached up for a teacup, heard his intake of breath. His chair skidded backward with a screee and in a few steps he was behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her gently against him, burying his face in her hair. She felt weak with a rush of wanting, leaned back against him. The teacup clinked down on the counter.

"You look beautiful, my love," he whispered.

"Patrick," she protested, but her tone was so weak, so unconvincing she knew he understood it was no protest at all. She couldn't resist him another moment and pivoted in his arms, meeting his eyes and seeing her own desire reflected there. Then he bent his head and caught her mouth with his.

Oh, it was a very nice kiss. She felt her mind give way, letting her response to him take over. His hand stroked down her back, warming her, then he was caressing her bottom, gently pressing her closer against him. She started from surprise, and from the marvelous feeling of his touch. This was new territory. He'd never so openly touched her, never telegraphed his desires so clearly, except in the privacy of the marital bed. She moaned against his mouth. It felt marvelous.

The thump of footsteps in the hall and the loud shout of "Dad, where's my bookbag?" intruded and they separated. Patrick's eyes burned into hers. He was breathing quickly, almost panting. So was she, she realized.

They moved apart. Patrick turned back to his newspaper and she stepped toward the sink, reaching it just as a certain young man thumped noisily into the room.

She couldn't turn around just yet, needed a moment to compose herself, but she did hear Timothy mutter under his breath—"Bloody hell."

She almost laughed out loud. He sounded just like Patrick! She turned around in time to see him roll his eyes and fire his father a knowing look.

She moved her hands down her new pencil skirt, smoothing it over her hips. This new, feminine way of dressing. It could be very distracting for poor Patrick. But then, that was just what she intended.


End file.
